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“But why? I won’t cry ruination,” she pleaded. “My opinion of marriage hasn’t changed, I promise.” Torrington didn’t want to wed. He’d told her so before he kissed her at Granby’s house party. “I wouldn’t expect you to do the honorable thing, if that concerns you.”
The line of his jaw sharpened. “How progressive of you.”
She bit her lip. Shouldn’t Torrington be pleased Rosalind wouldn’t expect him to wed her? That she wouldn’t tell anyone she’d been compromised? “I thought—”
“What did you think, Rosalind?” he shot back in a rough, almost angry tone.
“That you don’t want to marry. That you would be happy I expect only friendship.” She couldn’t bear to think of Torrington as anything other than a friend. “You’ve been so kind to share the recipes with me and I appreciate—” Rosalind’s hand hovered in the air between them before she drew it back once more. “I wanted—”
It was exactly the wrong thing to say. A snarl came from Torrington as he looked down at her, his handsome features clouded with anger, mouth drawing into a thin line. One of the spoons fell from the table with a clatter, spraying whipped cream all over the floor.
“Is that what you think this is, Rosalind? An exchange offavors?” His voice was low and full of menace. “I’m surprised you would invite me to fuck you without first securing the recipe forbaiser du ciel.”
The crudity of his language, the assumption he’d drawn, had Rosalind falling back to grab at the worktable. “Bram.”
“Stop talking. Now.” He turned from her, placing both his hands on the edge of the stove. The set of his shoulders became rigid. Unmovable. “You should go, Rosalind,” he said without turning to look at her. “This instant. It was foolish for you to come here alone. If you’re seen, you will be as good as ruined. Forced to wed an elderly rogue who would doubtless breed you like a prize mare.” He flung her own words back at her. “You need to work on the cake. Much too dry. The candied orange rind is unnecessary.”
Her heart twisted painfully. “You can’t possibly think—Bram, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Yes, you did, Rosalind. Why else would you be here?” He reached into his shirt pocket and without looking at her, extended his arm, the paper clasped in his fingers. “Oh, yes. You came for this. It’s a lemon torte. No need to have me taste it. Or offer yourself up again. It isn’t necessary.”
“That isn’t—” She stopped. He wasn’t going to listen to her or even look at her.
Fine.Though it really wasn’t.
Carefully she took the paper from his fingers before bending to pick up the basket, still heavy with the remains of the sponge cake. She could feel the stickiness of the chocolate between her thighs. It had never occurred to her that he would draw such a conclusion or that he might wish something more from her than merely to become lovers.
“Watkins will show you out. Good day, Miss Richardson.”
Torrington didn’t move or turn in her direction as she made her way up the stairs and out of the kitchen. Resolutely, she straightened her shoulders, fingers biting into the handle of the basket. This was for the best. It really was. Happiness. Affection. An excess of feeling. She wanted none of those things. Not from Torrington or anyone else. Her judgement, as evidenced by coming here today, was already clouded. Better her relationship with Torrington come to an end now before any true damage could be done.
It was best to put her efforts, hersoul, into her pastries.
